Meddie took a deep, shuddering breath. He had washed up on a shoreline, and he had no idea where he was. He didn’t particularly care, either, because pain was wracking his entire body, surging through his veins and settling in his intestines. He was bleeding from his eyes, nose, and ears, and his fingernails had darkened. The poison was truly setting in. He normally took the potion right away, but this time, he didn’t have a choice.

He was going to die on this beach.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he listened to the sound of someone approaching him across the sand. He couldn’t manage to open his eyes, and someone knelt at his side. Was it an enemy soldier, here to put him out of his misery? Was it a civilian, trying to save him? He didn’t know. Either way, he was going to die. He breathed out, and someone grabbed his jaw, wrenching his mouth open and pouring a familiar liquid that tasted of ash root and charcoal between his lips. He coughed, spluttered, and swallowed.

It was probably too late, but the person didn’t seem to care. Hands pressed into him, and he felt magic, familiar and old, sink into his body. He relaxed into the sand, the warmth spreading over his body, chasing all of the pain away, and his eyes fluttered open to take in teal skin.

“Not yet, little one,” the man murmured. “Not yet.”

Three vials of the potion were laid out on the sand next to him, and the person stood and walked away.

“Wait,” Meddie rasped, but the man just kept walking. “Wait, please…”

The man continued to walk away from him, and Meddie watched him go as tears sprang to his eyes.

Goddammit.

He was tired.

He just wanted a little kindness. Just once, he wanted a little kindness.

He scrabbled in the sand for the three vials and put them in his inner coat pocket, and then he hauled himself to his feet, stumbling to his feet and gasping for air. He needed to get away from the tide  before it rose and took him away. Where was he? He didn’t see any settlements, but he could tell from the geography in the darkness of the night that he was in the bay.

He had no idea if the Holy Empire had taken control of the bay. He hoped not. That would be bad. In the distance, he could see the light of the port city, Triton, and he stumbled towards it, wrapping his soaked coat around him tighter as he made his slow way back to the city.

Just one and a half year left, he told himself. Just one and a half years left, and then he could rest. His brothers would stop trying to kill him when he was in the Holy Empire, and he would be safe.

He would be safe.

….

“Here is the requested report, Your Highness,” the squire said and laid the report on the table. Tristan stared at it. It had been one week since the disastrous battle of Triton Bay, and he had been immediately ordered back to the front lines with the implicit understanding that he was to never touch a naval battle again. The entire coastline was now firmly under the control of the Demonias Empire, and Tristan…

Tristan was frustrated, because it wasn’t his fault. There were reports that Meduso had made it back to Triton and was laying low while he recovered from the poisoning. Tristan had been thoroughly bested, and more ships were being sent from the port cities in the Holy Empire. Rumors had spread all throughout the camps that the brothers had poisoned Meduso, and morale was at an all time high as they smelled blood in the water.

Tristan didn’t feel like his morale was high.

He stared at the thick sheaf of papers. This was everything the Holy Empire had on the youngest of the Demonias spawn. He knew he shouldn’t bother with it. He was never going to face Meduso again, but he was a digger. He was like a dog with a bone, and he did not stop once he had a grip on something.

He hadn’t realized it at the time of their fight, but he knew now. There were only two living people, maybe three, invested in the prince’s death. And those were his immediate family members. His brothers, and his father.

So, here he was, spending his off time reading through everything. He hadn’t lost a battle of any great importance yet, but Meduso had given him a thorough thrashing. Maybe he had needed it. Maybe he had needed to have his ego knocked down a peg or two. All he could think was that Meduso had pulled off that risky maneuver while quite literally dying. He had won the battle while literally at death’s door, and he had survived anyway. Miraculously. Tristan had no idea how he survived, but he survived. Did a witch find him or something, he thought as he flicked through the report, and then he paused at the words there.

Concern settled in his chest, and he flipped to the next pages. He scanned over the document there, and then he flipped to the next page. No. Surely not.

Twelve?

Twelve known attempts on his life?

Why? He wasn’t in the running for Crown Prince. Crown Prince was already selected, and had been long before---

He showed up?

Wait, what?

He flipped back to the beginning as he fell into his chair, and his eyes scanned over the words there. According to intelligence, he was abandoned in the woods as a baby and raised by a witch. A witch? It was believed he was a bad omen, and would bring ruin to the Empire, and so he was left to die, except at the time, he was a… Princess?

No. That was clearly a man he had met. He had the height, the breadth of shoulders, the deep voice, even an Adam’s apple. He wasn’t as tall as Tristan, but he was pretty tall. And disarming, in a strange way. His features were masculine, so what---

Oh. He was raised by a witch.

Could a witch change someone’s sex?

Why would a witch even do that?

Why not undo the curse while she was at it, make him appear to be a normal demon? Why do all of that and then not save him from his reputation? He didn’t…

He scanned over the words on the paper. Twelve attempts at his life that was known to the public. All of them were suspected to be one of his brothers, who all fervently believed he was a bad omen, doomed to bring ruin to the Empire. Never mind the fact that he was keeping the Demonias Empire alive right now, ensuring imports were going through so people didn’t starve, and just simply dominating the western coast.

Corina had managed to get the deal with the elves while he was chasing after Meduso. Their supply lines were secure, and they could continue this war. So long as Meduso was not switched to the front lines, they were in the clear. And he doubted from this document alone that Meduso would be shifted to the front lines.

His brothers were trying to kill him, he realized as he sat back. This was great for the Holy Empire, honestly. The brothers leading this war were fractured, killing each other with infighting, quite literally, but all he could think was there was no evidence in the report of Meduso striking back. Otherwise, he might consider having a parlay with him. If he could convince him to the side of the Holy Empire, he could easily win this war. Meduso was one of the few reasons they were remaining standing, but…

He thought about it. He thought about it long and hard, rubbing his hand over his mouth. His mother had informed him that it was up to him what the terms of the ceasefire was. He knew it was a test to see about his candidacy for Crown Prince, but…

Couldn’t he be a little selfish?

He almost wanted to be selfish. He didn’t know why this was selfish, but if Meduso was left in the Demonias Empire, he would be dead before long. Which might be good for the Holy Empire. If a brilliant tactical mind like that was left to his own devices, he may end up retaking all of the land they had claimed in another few decades. But… if he could steal him away to the Holy Empire…

He knew that Dominus Demonias had appointed his eldest son the power to negotiate a ceasefire. He was entirely hands off with his eldest son, allowing him to run the war. It would be like taking candy away from a baby. There was no way Veritas was aware of the threat Meduso posed to the Holy Empire, or his throne. And if Meduso was taken out of the running for the seat of Emperor… Because after this? He may take the rank of Crown Prince right from out under his brother’s feet, if the Emperor had any sense.

Yes.

Yes, this would work, he thought. He could take the legs out from under the Empire and get what he wanted in one go.

Because…

He sat back in his chair and stared at that report.

It wasn’t often in war that a person became a person to you. To survive, you had to strip away their sentience, their humanity, or whatever the demons called it. You had to view them as an animal in your way.

And he could no longer view Meduso as an animal. He could no longer view him as an obstacle. For just a moment, he saw the personhood, yes, that was the word, in the tears mixed with blood, that savage way of fighting that screamed I will not die like this, I will not die like an animal. He saw the soul in Meduso, and he couldn’t…

He was still a child, he realized, and it was a sobering thought. Sometimes, he forgot he was only sixteen. It was hard to believe he had killed countless men, ordered the deaths of thousands more, and he was a child. He didn’t feel like a child. He felt old, tired, broken, in many ways. He felt like the world was crumbling around him most nights, when he was struggling to sleep amidst the men screaming from night terrors in their tents.

He was still a child, and something about Meduso reminded him of that. Maybe because Meduso himself was so young. He wasn’t childlike, not in the slightest, but he was… young. There was that spirit to him of I will never die that only a child could have, and Tristan… yearned.

He was yearning for something he could not have, he realized.

Tristan swallowed around the lump in his throat, and he stared down at the thick sheaf of papers that was the report.

If he finished this war in a year, he would have to go to the academy. It was required for all aristocracy, and he couldn’t stomach the thought. The world would be normal, calm, with worries about things like tea party invites and crushes and engagements. Nothing like these bloodsoaked plains, where all you cared about was surviving in the aftermath of it all. Where you ate hard rations and scrounged for food when your supply lines were cut off, where you lived and died by the will of the Goddess, not yourself.

He would have to act normal, he realized, and he…

He didn’t want to do that alone.

Yes.

He would allow himself to be selfish. He would allow himself to be selfish, because he deserved that much. He had given up his childhood for this war, and he wanted to take it back.